


Seeing you with different eyes

by Eriathalia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Javert survives, M/M, Post-Seine, Slow Build, caring Valjean, sick Javert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eriathalia/pseuds/Eriathalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean finds himself confronted with his suppressed feelings for the inspector, recognizing he has been secretly admiring him for all these years, while he tries to nurse him back to health after dragging him from the Seine. <br/>The inspector has to acknowledge, that surviving might not be the worst fate after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing you with different eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Alfie Boe and Norm Lewis are among my favorite actors for this pair. I think they deserve some more attention.
> 
> Rating may go up later.

It is strange to see the faint moonlight being reflected from the dark skin of the man lieing in his bed now, no less than it is a man from whom he had run away for the better part of his life. Valjean still remembers the sinking feeling in his stomach whenever their paths would cross again after years and years of separation.

Of course he was grateful for all his good God had granted him in life, most of all the love of a child who, even though not his own flesh and blood, had accepted him into her heart as if it had been the most natural thing in all the world, given he was nothing but a stranger when they first met. Yes, Cosette had filled the void left behind after being torn away from his family for the simple deed of stealing a loaf of bread back when he was still a young man.

Still Jean was unable to shake off the question, whether his greatest nightmare finding him again and again served as nothing but a cruel game. Too often he felt like a powerless pawn in a higher entities game of chess, not knowing if he would see another day, or if the adversaries knight would take him down for good.  
Or was it, that they were meant to be in a completely different way? 

He catches himself staring at the now relaxed face of his nemesis, the cheeks slightly reddened by a fever. A strong, straight nose, wide eyebrows and --his very heart gives a start at the thought-- full lips, parted ever so slightly as the other is taking even breaths in his sleep.   
What startles him most is an invisible force beckoning him closer. There is a faint longing, the question how these lips might feel pressed up against his own. The notion is as much indecent as it is exciting, and before he even knows what is happening, his feet carry him over to the narrow cot on which the other man is still sleeping soundly.

Valjean had always been aware of how tall the inspector was, how much wider his shoulders were, but seeing part of his chest uncovered, drives a rush of heat to his face. Who would have thought that beneath the uniform and the rigid posture a --here he swallows, well aware how dangerous the path his thoughts are taking truly is-- downright chiseled body was hidden from prying eyes. 

It is true, Valjean had often tried to figure the other man out, quite frequently even stolen secret glances after the first shock of them meeting once more had settled.   
He still remembers how he had both dreaded and looked forward to his inspector’s weekly reports, just to fill his mind with another image to ponder over till they would confer again, or how he was unable to not let his gaze trace the lean body as it was bound by the students in the dawn of their revolution doomed to fail in the end.  
Admitting to this now causes Jean to feel vile and filthy, even though he is uncertain, whether his eyes had followed the dark shadow lurking over him with nothing but repressed lust, or rather something that ran deeper, but was all the same forbidden. It is what he might be most afraid of, the recognition, that what he wished for in the darkest corners of his heart, was not to flee from these arms, but instead be held by them, being protected and --dare he even think it-- loved in their powerful embrace.  
His fingers itch to trace a line across the wide pectorals and feel-- with a gasp he tears his eyes away from the resting man, his hands tightly fisted into his shirt in an attempt to keep them from truly touching the sleeping lion, for that is how Valjean had always seen Javert: dangerous, cunning, strong...majestic, impressive, elegant, beautiful. 

He shakes his head vehemently. No. No, he cannot allow his mind to follow further down this path. But why then are his eyes fixing once again on the plump lips and why are they so close and --oh. They are indeed as soft as they seemed to be. 

It is over as soon as it began, strong hands pushing him away, than taking a crushing grip on his wrist. The dark eyes, despite being slightly clouded over, pierce him with a ferocity that sends cold shivers down his back. His breath comes in short, shallow pants, his heart racing in his chest, thudding against his ribs in a futile attempt to break free. 

“Valjean” The voice is quiet, hiding an assortment of emotions --anger, revulsion, loathing, but also surprise, confusion and the faintest hint of insecurity. Most of all there is a warning, unmistakably, clearly, telling him to never attempt this again, and the effect is immediate as Jean's throat constricts, making the act of breathing harder and harder until he feels like suffocating.  
He is a mouse caught in a trap, and it was his own foolishness that set it in the first place.  
Finally he swallows thickly around the lump in his throat.

“What vile trick of yours is this?!” Javert’s chest is heaving as he forces himself to sit up, the task almost more than he is able to take, his body too weakened after his desperate plunge into to the Seine. “Fate is indeed a cruel mistress if what I am doomed to see even in death is your face alone. Have you not haunted me long enough? Curse you!” A hand grabs for Valjean’s throat, misses it once, then latches onto it, squeezing weakly, all strength drained from its owner by the fever still raging inside.   
The inspector lets our a growl, but it ends in a hacking cough, his frame convulsing as his lungs burn like fire, setting his chest aflame. His hands aimlessly search purchase on his own damp skin in hopes of alleviating the sting. It is a pitiful sight, and Javert is aware of it, hates it, and is yet betrayed by his weakness, doomed to rely on the other, this saint in a thieve’s disguise, whom he had hated passionately, searched for and, in the end, let go of in recognizing, that the villain had always been himself.   
Lacking the strength to fight the all too gentle hands, he lets the other guide him back down, even accepts the covers to be drawn up over his chest. His face however, remains turned away, the eyes squeezed shut tightly to drown out his surroundings. 

Javert knows it is foolish to hope that not seeing means the truth can be denied, but in his state of denial it does not matter, as long as it grants him a brief reprieve from facing an eternity in death at the hands of the man he had sought to escape by ending his existence. He is grateful when he is finally granted oblivion once more.


End file.
